


Gone

by perpetualAlvadrotnin



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Fluff, Hallucinations, M/M, Major Depression, Panic Attacks, Sadstuck, Suicide, but i am cruel, cackles, im not evil i swear, more fluff than i expected actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 09:10:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetualAlvadrotnin/pseuds/perpetualAlvadrotnin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a panic attack and Dave goes to make things better, but there's a twist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone

**Author's Note:**

> This is kinda an alternate thingy to You're Going To Be Okay. I really hope I pierce you all in the heart because if I do then I accomplished my goal hehe. I don't really know how to write sadstuck I just hope this becomes what I'm aiming for.  
> The two stories are NOT THE SAME THING, ok!  
> I also hope everyone will get the ending without me having to explain? Let's see how good of a writer I am. (Or not)  
> Eh I'll put an explanation at the end for anyone who wants it.

You come home to a dark apartment and silence, not that you're surprised. You throw your keys and backpack on the kitchen counter and turn on the lights in the kitchen and living room.

You glance at the the clock in the kitchen, 10 pm, kicking off your shoes and padding down the hall. Sweat makes it way down your temple and there's a subtle shaking in your fingers, but you brush it off.

"You wouldn't believe what a hell of day I had today, jesus." You start mumbling to yourself, aimlessly walking through your apartment. You continue your story. "Mrs. Connor and her fuckin' shit. Went totally batshit on me today." You decide to head into your bathroom and messily go through your stuffed cabinet, knocking various things out and onto the floor due to the instability and carelessness of your hands but not giving a fuck about that. 

"Didn't even fucking do anything wrong. Can't walk into her room without getting yelled at," You mutter and even your voice is weak and quivering. Your fingers close around the desired bottles and you take your meds. You walk out and restlessly make your way into the kitchen. You go through your fridge a few times but find nothing you want to eat. You go through it a few more times because for some reason you can't stop goddamn fidgeting. You don't notice how heavily you're breathing. You were fine. You always were. 

You make your way into the living room and turn on the TV. Flopping onto the couch you notice just how slick you are from sweat. Gross, you hazily think. You lay there a while, arm over your eyes, listening to the shitty-ass cartoons no one watches anymore. Frustrated, you groan. Your meds aren't taking any effect. Why aren't they doing anything?

You sit up and switch on your N64, opting instead to play some shitty videos games. 

As you played, you forced laughs at the glitches you and John managed to put in the games from fucking it up so much, but it just wasn't the same. After half an hour of putting yourself through unnecessary torture and nostalgia, you got up and fucked around on the computer. You updated your blog, made some SBaHJ comics that stopped being as funny as they used to be. You were thinking of deleting it. What was the point.

What was the point of anything. 

You get up and move toward you room with the objective of maybe getting some proper sleep.

You abruptly stop when you hear labored breathing in the hall. Your breath ceases but your heart beat starts to pound in your ears. Had someone broken into your home? 

Suddenly your breathing picks up again even faster than before and you pass a hand through your hair only to find that it's practically soaked in sweat. Damn, you need to get an AC or something. Then you remember you already have one and that it's on full blast. What the fuck, then why are you sweating.

Ok, enough rambling. Think, Dave. You tiptoe in your living room and take a katana out from under your couch. Slowly, you make your way back to your room and steadily open the door. When seeing the coast is clear you kick it wide open and frantically search for the fiend who dared invade your privacy. 

But there was no one. Your room was empty.

You sigh and slide your shades off your face, rubbing at your tired eyes. The katana clangs on the floor near your feet. You drag yourself out of your room. All this fucking around was tiring you out and you should be doing homework or something productive. 

You make your way once more into the bathroom. 

It's only when you directly look into the mirror that you see how worn out and fatigued you look. "Fuck." You murmur. You pull at the bags under your eyes.

You then pull at your cheeks and your jawline. "I hate myself so much." You mutter in disgust. You look into your own crimson eyes. You always loathed them. For some reason John found it fascinating.

"All my fault," You whisper, tears welling up in your eyes at the thought of him. You angrily blink them away. Fuck, you practically did this on a daily basis. 

The little peace you had ends when your breathing starts to pick up, and it gets worse when you're just not even breathing. You hyperventilate and desperately try to remember the useless breathing exercises your therapist tried to teach you but you never bothered to learn. You stumble into the kitchen and get a paper bag and try breathing into that. The images wouldn't stop flashing through your mind. 

John in the hospital. 

The beeping of the machines monitoring his heart rate. 

The Life Support machine, practically pumping his heart for him.

Why'd he have to do it? Why'd he have to leave you? You feel your jaw tighten at the thought.

It only gets harder to breathe and you throw the bag down, only becoming further irked when you watch it float to the ground unlike you had intended. 

"Fuck shit." You mutter. You wanted to join him now that he was gone.

You go into your room and flop onto your bed. You nearly scramble off at the feel of another human being under the covers.

Tears well up in your eyes and this time you don't stop them from falling, a dry sob racking your body. 

"J-John." You try to say but your voice is too hoarse for words. 

The boy doesn't look at you, only quietly sobbing. 

You watch him a second.

"You're not real." You whisper. He glances at you. You climb under the covers anyway and pull John to you.

"John." You whisper, voice succeeding more clearly now. "John, John, John," Your voice cracking on the last syllable. 

You realize the brunette is having a panic attack just like he used to and for a moment you wonder if you should help. He's not real, but you attempt to soothe him anyway.

You notice he's mumbling something in your fuzzy state of mind. You think maybe the meds are starting to take effect now. You don't want John to leave, though. Not again.

"John, you're o-ok." You whisper, but it sounds more like you're trying to convince yourself. He shakes his head at that.

"Pl-please don't leave me again." Your voice is barely audible as you bury your face into the nape of his neck and take in his smell. Tears stream down your face and you close your eyes. 

"D-Dave, I-" Your hands tighten around John. He sounds just like him. "I-I'm going to die, D-Dave." 

That hits you like a slap in the face and leaves behind a stinging sense of deja vu. You hold him tighter and clench your eyes tightly, as if that would keep it all from going away.

You hold back sob.

"You'll b-be fine." You say, still tasting deja vu and bitterness long after those words have left your mouth. You never knew what he meant by that until that day came. You two stay there a long, long time. Your tremulous fingers trace patterns on his sides, occasionally winning a shiver from him. You press kisses along his shoulders and tell him everything you never got to before he took his own life. He holds your hand in his, constantly intertwining and untwining your fingers. 

After the the two of you have calmed down, occasionally emitting sniffles here and there from crying, John looks to you with blood-shot eyes and puts his cold hand to your cheek, thumb wiping away any evidence of there ever having been tears. An involuntary shiver courses through your body. You bask in his dead, icy gaze and how it comes close to the way it used to be only to be so different. 

You feel your eyelids start to droop and you mumble a "please don't leave" that you're not sure was very intelligible. 

Eventually crimson stops meeting sapphire and the eye contact is cut off as sleep drags you down. John gives a hollow smile. 

"I love you." 

 

 

You wake up feeling disoriented. You close your eyes for a few more minutes before the ache in your head keeps you from any pseudo-relaxation you had prior to waking up. You look around your bed and feel a bit dreadful when you don't see him right away.

"John?" You call out. You get up and stretch, working all the kinks out of your bones. You amble out of your room keep your eyes peeled for the mop of black hair. Not in the living room. You go to check the kitchen. Maybe he was making breakfast or something- no one in the kitchen. 

You check the bathroom. Nope.

You start walking faster and you check John's room. Not there.

You can feel the desperation and trepidation sinking in and poisoning your veins. 

You check your room once more. 

"John!!" You yell. You swing open your front door and check down the hallway. You call his name once more, getting a few complaints from neighboring apartments to shut the hell up at three in the morning. 

You splutter when you go to make a snarky reply and are instead a bit shocked to find you're crying again. Fucking christ. 

You move back inside the safety of your own home and sit on the couch. You're shaking again. 

This always happens. 

This always fucking happens.

Why the hell do you keep expecting him to come back?

He's gone.

**Author's Note:**

> ugh i don't really like the way this came out  
> anyway  
> so basically yall can interpret whatever you want  
> what i was trying to convey was that  
> so john used to have panic attacks and problems and killed himself  
> obviously dave was very affected and this eventually caused depression and anxiety for him  
> his depression got so bad to the point of hallucinating and being delusional (happens in major depression)  
> his anxiety got really bad to the point of panic attacks except he never even realizes theyre panic attacks  
> and basically the thing with john is that he hallucinates john and its kinda like a flashback to a time when john was having a panic attack and told dave he was gonna die and also like a "redo" because he always experiences it over and over  
> and this hallucination of john is kinda like daves coping method when he has an attack, its the way he sorta calms himself-by calming john  
> but he knows hes deluding himself he just wishes john would come back and is always left hanging when he wakes up john-less, kinda like he was when john killed himself  
> so basically yeah the hallucination is to deal with the panic attack but then the hallucination also causes the panic attacks and its a horrible cycle


End file.
